


May Heaven Guard

by tangerinabina_de_archanea



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, I LOVE THIS DYNAMIC SO MUCH... AHHHHh, More tags to be added, Setleth Week 2019, Slow(ish) Burn, knight and princess AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinabina_de_archanea/pseuds/tangerinabina_de_archanea
Summary: After an assassination attempt against the royal family, Sir Seteth of the Royal Knights of Fodlan is tasked with protecting the Princess Byleth. What starts as a simply a knight guarding his princess soon blossoms into much more...Written for Setleth Week 2019.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Seteth
Comments: 23
Kudos: 54





	1. first kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _May Heaven guard and keep you  
>  In great security,  
> Make you staunch and hale;  
> What blessing not vouchsafed?  
> Give you much increase, send nothing but abundance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from an ancient Chinese poem. Thank you so much again to Bell for helping me find a title (again) FHSDKLJFLSDJF UR THE BEST

“Ah, there you are, Seteth. Just the man I wanted to see.”

The heel of his boots click as he approaches his king, his steps measured and even. Instead of sitting on the throne, King Jeralt is standing by the open window, looking out over the Kingdom of Fodlan as sunlight dapples the throne room and wind shifts in the curtains. He casually closes it as Seteth approaches, turning to greet him with a nod.

To be quite honest, he doesn’t look like a king. His hair is always a little too scruffy, and his clothes a little too worn, to be what one would picture when they think kingly, but he is a good king all the same. It was his policies, and not his gruffness, that swayed Seteth into loyalty years ago. 

Seteth himself is the perfect picture of a royal knight, or at least, that is what he would say if someone asked him. Appearance and ability are things that go hand in hand, he claims, and diligence in regards to both are the hallmark of an excellent sword and shield, so to speak, for the royal family. Even for this meeting, which Jeralt insisted was “casual but urgent,” he’s still in full armor that has seen better days, but is well maintained nonetheless. A sword hangs at his side, his hand resting on the hilt and ready to withdraw it at any moment. Alertness and preparedness for any situation are also of greatest import, in his mind, and he refuses to sacrifice that at any given moment.

“You called, Your Majesty?” Seteth bows lowly in greeting, just as a formality. Jeralt’s reaction, waving him away with an exclamation of “bah!” and a shake of his head, is expected, but it is a song and dance they both know well. Jeralt detests the formalities, while Seteth has the highest regard for them. Both are too stubborn to budge on the matter.

“I did. I need to talk to you about something important.” The king starts pacing, as he usually does when something weighs on his mind, and grabs an apple from a banquet table along the wall, tossing it from side to side as he walks. “You remember what happened a month ago.” 

Indeed he does. There’s a scar on Jeralt’s cheek that’s alarmingly fresh, a reminder of the assassination attempt on both the king and his daughter. Seteth remembers it well, not only for its degree of danger, but also because of the utter disbelief that assassins could have gotten  _ that _ close to the royal family. King Jeralt comes off as a casual man, but he is always much more watchful than he lets on, and the thought that even the king himself didn’t notice what was happening until it was too late is both appalling and troubling.

“Of course I do, Your Majesty. It will not happen again.”

“Good man. That’s the idea, you see. You have family, correct? Your... sister, is it?”

“That is correct.” His younger sister Flayn is a bright girl with a cheery disposition, a love for fish, and, unfortunately (at least in Seteth’s mind), a stubborn streak as wide as her brother’s. To say that she is the light of his life is a gross understatement.

“So then you understand how I feel.” Jeralt tosses the apple up even higher, and it falls a bit out of his reach. Seteth catches it almost effortlessly.

“I’m not sure I follow, Your Majesty.” He returns the apple to Jeralt, who resumes tossing it back and forth.

“It’s Byleth. I’m worried about her.”

“The princess?” He’s still failing to see the connection.

“She can hold her own, alright, but there’s nothing wrong with some added security, is there? I’d do anything to protect her. I know you feel the same about Flayn.”

Ah, there it is. “Indeed. I completely understand the sentiment, Your Majesty. I assume you are asking for my assistance in the matter?”

“Bingo.” He catches the apple and takes a bite out of it, taking a moment to think over how he’ll continue as he chews. “The way I see it, Seteth, is that we’ve been lax on security for a while now in this castle. No fault of your own, by the way, before you start getting all offended. It’s just how things are organized. I never want a damn guard tailing me all the time, and neither does she, but in light of recent events… a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, and well, I’ll be blunt with you. There’s been two more attempts that didn’t get very far, and one of the assassins we captured and interrogated promised more to come. I don’t like any of this one bit.” He sighs deeply, staring at nothing before turning back to look at Seteth. “My daughter means everything to me, and you’re one of my most trusted knights. Think you can handle her?”

“I have no doubt that I can, Your Majesty.” Seteth bows lowly again, making Jeralt cringe. “I am honored to be entrusted with her safety. I will do my utmost to protect her.”

“Oh, save the fancy speeches for her. She  _ might  _ get a kick out of them. Byleth!” he barks, turning towards a door across the room.

“Her Highness is here? Already?” This is unexpected, to say the least, and Seteth’s tongue fumbles over his words for a moment. He wasn’t quite ready for this so quickly (even if he knows that a knight should be ready for anything at any given moment). The princess is something of an enigma in the castle. Seteth himself has only ever seen her once or twice from a distance, and rumors abound as to why she’s kept in isolation as she is. Some say it’s a curse, some say she’s a bastard, and others say that she isn’t even human at all, but a demon. Seteth is a practical, logical man, and puts no stock in such fantastic rumors, but suddenly being introduced to her like this is a bit of a shock. It feels as if Jeralt is sharing one of the castle’s biggest secrets with him, almost flippantly, at that. Even if he  _ is _ being entrusted with this particular secret’s safety.

“Is that a problem?” Jeralt looks amused at how shocked Seteth is.

“Of course not, Your Majesty. It is simply... sudden.”

The door opens as he finishes speaking, and the princess is already turning to close the door behind her with a quiet click before Seteth can get a proper look at her. Standing a bit shorter than him, perhaps up to his shoulder, she is dressed in clothing similar to her father’s in style, but perhaps a bit finer, and much duller colors than the rusty oranges the king prefers. Her pants are dark and well-fitted, as are her boots, and her shirt is pure white with billowing sleeves, cuffed at the end, and covered partially with a black vest. She is openly armed, with a sword hanging at her left side and a dagger is strapped to her right thigh. Her hair, choppily cut and falling to her upper back, is the oddest part, being an odd shade of dark, steely blue that is completely unlike the king’s own dirty blonde.

When she turns around and fixes her eyes on Seteth, the most striking thing about her face is not her features, but her expression- or, rather, the lack of an expression. Her face is completely passive and blank as she approaches them, and doesn’t change even when Jeralt greets her. “Hey there, kid.” She is far from a child, Seteth notes, and looks to be around thirty years old, and she simply nods at her father in greeting. Jeralt doesn’t seem to be perturbed by the perceived chilliness of her behavior, and Seteth suspects that this might be normal. Perhaps the rumors about a curse were true, he thinks for a moment, and then pushes the thought away. Her stoicism, however remarkable, is probably just a facet of her natural personality. “Seteth, meet my daughter Byleth.”

“Good day, Sir Seteth,” she greets him, her expression unchanging, and extends a hand. Her regard for formality is comforting to Seteth, and he drops to one knee, taking her hand in his, and kisses the back with all due reverence and chasteness as should be afforded to a royal. She simply stares at him.

“It is an honor to meet you, Your Highness, and an even greater honor to be entrusted with your safety. Rest assured, I will do the utmost to protect you, with my life, if necessary.”

“I don’t think it will,” she says flatly, and abruptly tugs him to his feet, near effortlessly. He wonders, bewildered, what sort of muscles are hiding under those billowy sleeves. “But thank you nonetheless. Are you aware of your duties?”

“I have not yet been informed of the specifics.”

“Very well. Come this way, then.” She still hasn’t let go of his hand, and leads him by it to the door that she came out of. For a moment, Seteth glances back at Jeralt, a bit too stunned to say anything. The king is leaning against the table with his arms crossed, looking more than a little smug at Seteth’s bewilderment, and then the door shuts behind them, cutting off his view.

* * *

The princess doesn’t say much as they go along the halls, and walks quickly. He only stumbles a few times trying to keep up with her, but regains his composure quickly. This is a wing of the castle he’s never been in, and so it is entirely unfamiliar to him. He guesses this is where she spends most of her time, hidden away from the rest of the palace. It’s not entirely empty, but there are much fewer people here than anywhere else. 

“Your Highness,” he finally asks after a bit of walking and several odd stares from passing servants, “are you entirely sure that this is… appropriate?”

“What are you talking about?” She stops abruptly to stare at him with that same unnerving, blank expression.

“...this, Your Highness.” He vaguely gesture to their connected hands. “It is not entirely proper for royalty to be parading around hand in hand with a knight.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it bothered you.” She hesitates before dropping his hand.

“If it is what you wish, Your Highness, then I have no issue with it.” He reaches for her hand again, waiting for her to complete the distance, and she does. “But it is not… well, the usual way.”

“I know that. I just think it faster than having you try to walk ten paces behind me at all times. Alois has a dreadful time with it.”

“Well, if that is the case… carry on then. Pardon my boldness, Your Highness. I do apologize. I should not have-“

“Don’t say sorry. My father did say you were uptight, but…” She doesn’t finish the thought, and instead presses on.

Seteth isn’t quite sure whether to be offended or not. “Well. If I may be so bold as to ask, who is Alois?”

“One of my other guards. You’ll meet him eventually. He and Judith are the other two protecting me, but my father thought it best to give me a third. You’ll all be rotating in eight hour shifts.”

“I see.”

“There’s not much to know about this job, to be honest. You just have to keep me safe by staying with me at all times.” Seteth can’t be sure if he’s detecting a hint of bitterness in her voice, or if his ears are playing tricks on him. “I have a few rules of my own. When I tell you to leave my room, do so without question and wait in the hallway. Do not speak of what happens when you’re working except to my father, or people who absolutely need to know.”

“Of course, Your Highness. Is there anything else?”

She stops for a moment, thinking. “You can always be frank with me. No need to ‘apologize for boldness’ or anything like that. I’d rather you be honest than distant.” Having said this, she tugs on his hand again, and continues to her room.

“Very well. Thank you, Your Highness.”

“I should be the one thanking you, shouldn’t I? Your life is on the line for me.”

“Rest assured, it is an honor to be protecting you, Your Highness.”

She glances back at him for a moment, then sighs and turns forward. Her expression seemed almost the same empty stare as before, and yet… she didn’t seem happy. He wonders why. Perhaps because she prefers to protect herself, or perhaps because she values her independence. Perhaps another reason he can’t quite fathom at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it still counts as a first kiss even if it's on the hand :3


	2. tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _May Heaven guard and keep you,  
>  Cause your grain to prosper,  
> Send you nothing that is not good. _

Seteth adjusts to his new duties quickly. On the first day, Byleth gave him an explanation of her room, including its weak points and best spots for observation (which was delivered in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a tactics lecture) and then she carried on with her day as normal, which, well, was not what he imagined for a princess. There was a great deal more watching her train and eat more food than he thought a human being could consume in a day, let alone a few hours, and several unsuccessful attempts at trying to befriend the castle’s cats. She did all of this with the same blank expression.

He met his fellow guards as well. They were Judith, a woman with a sharp tongue and sharper blade, and Alois, a man who spent most of his time cracking bad jokes (which Seteth did not appreciate) and talking about his family (which Seteth did appreciate). When he delicately questioned them about the princess’s peculiar behavior, they told him not to worry, because she was, as they put it, “always like that.” It was a bit disconcerting at first, but as Seteth spends more time with her, he realizes that it’s charming in its own way, and that she’s much more expressive than she initially lets on. She doesn’t say it with her face, but her actions.

When she finds something she favors or is interested in, she is persistent with it, whether it be in training, studying, or befriending people and animals. She is taciturn, and yet she is always making conversations, even if they do end up a bit one-sided. Seteth learns that she has never been good with people, nor with expressing her emotions, and knows little about certain things in the kingdom. The one that shocks him the most is her ignorance concerning the Church of Seiros. 

* * *

“Surely you know something of its doctrines? Or even its histories?” he asks one day, when she brings the topic up as she’s sitting in the library. He’s been guarding her for about a month now, and this is the first time it’s been mentioned. 

“My father has never been fond of the church, so not really. He never encouraged me to learn about it. I know it was founded by Saint Seiros after the war with Nemesis, but that is all.” She softly closes the book she’s reading and sets it on the table. “You seem to be a religious man, Sir Seteth. Would you be able to tell me more?”

“If that is your wish.”

“Come, sit with me,” she beckons, and he sits in the chair closest to her, careful to not catch the rich upholstery on his armor.

There’s a moment of awkward silence as she folds her hands and waits patiently for him to explain, staring expressionlessly at him as he tries to figure out where to begin. Her stare isn’t helping, to be honest. “Is there a problem, Sir Seteth?” she finally asks.

“It is difficult to know where to begin, Your Highness. The Church has a rich history and set of beliefs. Perhaps... do you know if the library has copies of the Books of Seiros? Starting there may be easiest. I would search for them myself, but it would be remiss of me to allow you out of my sight. I am here to guard you, after all.” 

“I will accompany you.” She is up and standing before he even begins to rise. “I’m curious. I often hear of the Church, and yet know little about it.”

“Yes, well… the Church certainly has made a name for itself these days. The current Archbishop is a bit…” He takes a moment to find the right word. “...extreme, dare I say.”

“Is the Archbishop the leader of the Church?” She follows him as he searches the shelves, which are, admittedly, rather haphazardly organized. He makes a mental note to himself to speak with the librarian later over the state of disarray.

“Yes. The current Archbishop is Rhe-“ He clears his throat violently in an attempt to cover the slip of his tongue. “...Saint Seiros. She oversees everything within the church, from administrative duties to religious ones. She is a very powerful figure.”

“My father speaks of having meetings with a Seiros sometimes… Never positively,” she remarks, tilting her head to the side and resting her cheek on her fist.

“Indeed. Current relations with the church are… strained.”

“Why?”

“A variety of reasons. I think it is mainly due to the fact that- Ah, here we are.” Seteth gestures to five thick leatherbound volumes on the shelf in front of them, with gold script and decorations on the spine. “The Book of Seiros, volumes one through five.”

Byleth blanches for a moment, and it’s the most expressive Seteth’s seen her face thus far. “This many? Why are they so long? Did the Archbishop write these herself?”

“Oh, good heavens, no. Saint Seiros did.” He realizes that he’s only caused more confusion by the way she stares at him. "A different Saint Seiros. It’s rather complicated.”

“Apparently.”

They collect the books off the shelf and return to their table, and over a period of weeks, Seteth explains the workings and beliefs of the Church to her. Each time he can’t help but notice that she sits a little closer to him, and he, for a reason he cannot fathom, allows this.

Her eagerness to learn is impressive, as are her plentiful arguments. She almost always has something to say, whether in agreement or disagreement with one of the Church’s doctrines. Debate has never been one of his strong suits, and yet he is enjoying himself nonetheless. 

* * *

The saints are one of her greatest interests, perhaps primarily because she still doesn’t quite understand them. It’s been two months since he began guarding her, and Seteth has the morning shift again, which means he gets to watch her train. 

“Explain the saints to me again?” she asks, nearly shouting, as her blade crosses with that of her opponent. “I don’t understand why they reincarnate.”

“If you continue to think of it as reincarnation, then you will never understand it properly.” He is standing to the side near a pillar, his posture near perfect, as always, and a hand on the hilt of his sword. 

“Alright, then explain it better.” Her tone is easygoing, almost teasing, and one that, when he thinks about it, he realizes that she only adopts around people she’s especially comfortable with. 

“Perhaps you would benefit more from a lesson on stance than on saints, Your Highness. You look close to losing your footing at any moment.” He would never have been nearly so frank with her even a month ago, but she insists that he be so. Besides, he feels comfortable enough to do so now, which is an unexpected change, but welcome nonetheless.

“Halt,” she says to her opponent, who immediately stops, and she beckons Seteth over. “Don’t just stand there. Come show me what I’m doing wrong, then.” 

“Very well.” He approaches her, intent on manually fixing her posture as he normally has when training young knights in the past, but hesitates a moment before touching her. “May I?” he asks, and she nods. 

“How else will you show me?” she asks.

“Very true.” Gingerly, he places his hands on her waist and helps her reposition. “You’re too stiff,” he says, moving her arm. “You fight well, and keep a remarkably even temperament, but your movements are rather mechanical.” He finishes adjusting her other limbs, his touch gentle, almost ghost like, as he becomes acutely aware of how close they are. “Try that,” he says, stepping back and crossing his arms.

“Now tell me about the saints,” she says as her opponent charges her, and he acquiesces.

“The saints have been the leaders of the Church since the very beginning, and are the children of the goddess Sothis. They-“

“The Church was founded a little under a thousand years ago,” she huffs, her words accented by the repeated crossing of blades. “How can they do that , if they don't reincarnate? Are they immortal?”

“I misspoke. The saints themselves no longer lead, but their souls do, in a way. They live on within mortal vessels, and pass along their power, but the vessel remains their own person. There have been cases in which their personalities change slightly after the soul inhabits them, but whether or not that is due to a greater feeling of… self-importance, shall we say, or some sort of placebo effect. Regardless, the Saints’ souls only reveal memories or wisdom in times of dire need.”

“I see.” She guards against a blow, then whirls around, delivering the winning blow on her opponent. “How was that, Sir Seteth?” she asks, tossing her hair behind her shoulder as she turns to look at him.

“Much improved, Your Highness. I’d almost call it perfect.”

For a moment, just a moment, he thinks he sees the smallest of smiles on her face, but then it is gone. 

* * *

A month later, he is guarding her again in the morning when she decides to forego training in favor of getting up earlier to go fishing. 

“You will accompany me, won’t you, Sir Seteth?” she asks from behind her dressing screen, tossing her nightgown over the top and leaving it hanging and crumpled. 

“Of course I will.” As usual, she has little disregard for her clothing- she’s said in the past that it doesn’t matter to her how it looks, so long as she can wear it- and Seteth crosses to pluck it off the screen and fold it properly. Most of the time, the only resistance he’s met with is her protests to leave it, because it’s fine, and he really shouldn’t go to the trouble, but this time when he tugs on it, something tugs back. “Your Highness,” he sighs, but it’s laced with more amusement than exasperation, and he tugs again. “I must ask you to relinquish the nightgown.”

“I will do no such thing,” she insists, tugging back. It sounds almost as if she’s repressing a laugh, but it’s awkward and stuck in her throat as if she’s never done it before. “It looks like you took my bait.”

It takes him a moment to get the joke, and he nearly releases the nightgown while he’s laughing. “Very clever, Your Highness. Please give me the nightgown.”

She’s not done being amused with herself, it seems, as she peeks around the side of the screen, her hair falling in her face and over her exposed neck and shoulder. “You fell for it, _hook_ , _line, and_ _sinker_.”

Seteth nearly falls down, a result of laughter and the fact that she finally releases the nightgown in her amusement. 

* * *

They ride out to the lake, cutting through the haze of early morning mist, and settle down as it starts to lift and the sun begins to warm the earth. 

“You know, Seteth,” she says, sitting at the edge of the dock and pulling off her boots, “when I asked if you wished to come, I meant it as a companion and friend, not as my guard.”

“I would happily do so, if it-”

“It shouldn’t be what I wish, Seteth. It should be what you wish.” She reaches for a pole and some bait.

“I see. Well, if it brings you any comfort, Your Highness… It is what I wish.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” she nods, then pats the dock next to her. “Come fish with me.”

He sits next to her, and she passes him the other pole. He doesn’t even bait it before casting his line, hoping against hope that she won’t notice. 

She does.

“What are you doing?”

“Fishing.”

“...without bait?”

“Oh, did I forget to bait the hook? How silly of me. I’ll just…” He reels in the line slowly, feeling like her eyes are burning into him even hotter than the sun. Truth be told, despite his age, and the many times he’s been fishing in the past, Seteth has no idea how to bait a hook. “...get right to it, then.”

“Uh-huh.” She watches him as he reaches for the bait, his hand hovering hesitantly as he tries to make a selection. “Do you… know how to bait the hook?”

“I- Well, I… No. I don’t.” 

She doubles over, a hand over her mouth and her shoulders shaking. 

“Your Highness! Are you- ...oh.” It takes him a moment to realize that she’s laughing silently.

She recovers quickly, and even if her lips aren’t smiling her eyes are. She makes an enchanting vision, sitting at the end of the dock with her feet in the water and her hair swathed with mist and her eyes alight. “I apologize, Sir Seteth. I don’t mean to laugh at you, but you just looked so…” She doubles over again, her shoulders shaking. 

Despite himself, Seteth laughs as well. It must have been a fairly amusing image, he realizes, even if he’s still a bit embarrassed about it.

“Let me show you how. It’s the least I can do, after everything you do for me.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“It’s no trouble.”

She shows him how, and they sit and fish together, and talk of many things, and laugh a few more times. It’s the most relaxed Seteth has felt for a long time, and yet, still, whenever her hands brush against his as she helps him bait the hook, or her eyes meet his, all he can think of is how beautiful she looked in the early morning light when she was laughing.

The conversation eventually turns to religion, as it has in the past. 

“So, Sir Seteth… tell me the purpose of these vessels and saints. Correct me if I’m wrong, but they don’t seem all that useful, or necessary. Where do they even come from?”

“Think of them as… a royal family of sorts, but for the Church. They are direct descendants of the goddess, and so are the children of a family line that extends back centuries. They lead and guide the Church. Saint Seiros, or, at least, her vessel, is always the Archbishop.”

“So anyone could lead the Church, then, if that family was overthrown. Just like if a kingdom is overthrown.”

“I suppose, but… the presence of the saints’ souls is important. While the vessels may only be saints in name only, they still gain the power of the saints, as well as receiving their wisdom. When a vessel initially accepts their soul, after the death of the previous vessel, it is customary for them to spend twenty-four hours in prayer in order to hear the Saint’s voice for the first time, and receive their wisdom and counsel. Saint Seiros is unique in that she is able to hear the voice of the Goddess as well.”

“Do they continue hearing the voice after that?” 

“As I said before, only in times of dire need.” He grows quiet for a moment. “The saints’ souls tend to keep to themselves, from what I’ve heard.”

“I see.” There’s a small tug on her line, and she waits to see if it continues, but the water falls still again.

“So where exactly do these vessels come from? They’re all descendants of the goddess, yes, but how can you guarantee that they will all be born? Are they all from different parents? Is the family spread out? Is-”

“I can only answer so many questions at once, Your Highness,” he says, shaking his head, but still smiling. He appreciates her curiosity. “Each generation of saints will be parented by only one of the previous saints. Three boys and one girl, who must be the youngest, are required to be the next generation, mirroring the original saints Cichol, Indech, Macuil, and Seiros. The vessel of Cichol will always father a daughter who will be the vessel of Saint Cethleann, and the cycle continues on. In fact, it was the original Saint Cethleann who bore the second generation of saints.”

“It sounds like that leaves a lot of room for error.” She scratches the side of her head and shifts a little as she watches shapes in the lifting mist.

“Yes, indeed it does… It is considered a great honor to be the progenitor of the next generation of Saints, and has unfortunately lead to a multitude of competing interests. Noble families are desperate to have a stake in the religious line, and so the church’s history is rife with jealousy and conflict. The Saints are pursued quite ruthlessly by those seeking to bear the next generation, but it is undoubtedly the children that suffer the most.”

“Oh.” She stares down at the water. “So the Church has a darker history than it lets on.”

“Indeed. There have been cases in the past where female infants are abandoned or even killed if they are not the fourth child to be born, and even beyond that, the children who are not vessels are often neglected or scorned by their parents. The ones who do become saints are subject to the jealous torment of their cousins, aunts, and uncles that were not so lucky, and sometimes even murderous plots from those who would rather see their children be saints.” He sighs deeply. “It is, admittedly, rare for the Saints to marry happily if the next generation has not already been born, and even rarer for their children to live happily.”

Byleth is quiet for a moment. “That’s… absolutely terrible. Why would they let such a system continue?”

“Tradition,” he says simply. “They stubbornly cling to it as if it is their last lifeline. The Church cannot imagine a world without their Saints, and so they let generation upon generation continue to suffer.”

“So it's like…” She places a finger on her chin as she thinks. “It’s like passing down a priceless family heirloom. Everybody wants it, but the person who gets it reaps no benefit from it. It sits and collects dust, and yet everyone suffered for it.” 

“Yes… that is an accurate comparison.”

“Do you think it will ever change?” 

“Perhaps, but… that change must come within. Perhaps it will soon. It is hard to say, to be honest.”

They sit in silence for a while, catching fish and watching the sun rise. Eventually, Seteth is the one to break it. “I used to fish with my wife, on mornings like this. I have always found it to be a relaxing activity.”

“It is.” Byleth glances over at him. “Your wife… is she…?”

“I lost her to illness many years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I…. Still, I am grateful, because that same illness almost stole my sister from me, and yet she lives. She loves fish, you know. She will be glad that I am bringing some home to her.”

“Really? Then take the ones I caught as well. She will appreciate them more than I, I’m sure.” He’s about to protest when she raises her hand and shakes her head. “No, don’t try to refuse. I insist.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. That is most generous of you.”

“You know, you’ve never mentioned having a sister. What’s she like? What’s her name?”

“Flayn. She is… well, I could talk for hours about what Flayn is like. She is an exceptional young woman, and I can say with complete confidence that I am prouder of her than anyone.“

“I’d like to hear about her.”

“Very well, then. Flayn is…” 

By the time they finish fishing, Seteth is still talking and Byleth listening. Her expression has not changed, and yet somehow, she looks content.

* * *

A month later, Byleth is sitting in front of her vanity as she readies for bed, trying to braid her hair. This is odd for many reasons, firstly because Seteth has never seen her use the vanity, second because he has never seen her do anything with her hair beyond combing her fingers through it (much to his horror), third because he has never seen her do anything to get ready for bed beyond changing into a nightgown and diving beneath the covers, fourth because her hair is so messily cut (by herself with a dagger, he later observed, again much to his horror) that braiding it neatly looks nearly impossible, and fifth because she is frowning, much more deeply than her usual look of mild disappointment. 

“Your Highness? May I ask what you’re doing?”

“Braiding my hair,” she huffs. “Well, trying, at least. I asked Judith earlier how her hair is always so curly, and she told me that she braids it before she goes to bed each night.”

“I see. Perhaps I could assist you. I know a thing or two about braiding from Flayn.”

“If you think you can, go ahead,” she says, turning towards him. She beckons him over, and he removes his gloves and gauntlets so that they don’t catch in her hair. The first thing he notices is that, as he expected, it’s hopelessly tangled.

“Perhaps, Your Highness, if you brushed your hair once in a while…” he sighs, reaching for the brush.

“I do.”

“Brushing with your fingers,” he says, pulling through the first tangle, “does not count.”

“It does- ow!”

“My apologies. I will try to be gentler. It does not.”

“It does.” She leans forward onto her elbows, squeezing her eyes shut. “Distract me, please?”

“With what, Your Highness?”

“Well…” She thinks for a moment. “I requested some of my father’s documents, and I was reading up on the current state of affairs in the Church earlier today. One thing that struck me was the fact that- ow, gentler please- Saint Cichol and Cethleann are never mentioned. Not once. Do you know why that is?”

“Ah, that. Well, I would assume that is because Saint Cichol is missing. Whether or not Saint Cethleann was ever born is still up for debate.”

“Really?” She opens her eyes. “What happened?”

“No one knows for sure,” he shrugs. “Some say that he left on his own, and, to be honest, I can’t say that I blame him. I can’t imagine having to live like that… resented by your family, and then pursued by women who are only interested in becoming the mother of Saint Cethleann…” He tugs a little harder than intended. “My apologies.”

“Is that what it’s truly like?”

“So I’ve heard. Cichol is the only Saint who is guaranteed to father a Saint, and so he is pursued just as doggedly as the rest, if perhaps not moreso.”

“And he can father other Saints as well, I assume, so Saint Cethleann simply sweetens the reward?.”

“...no, he can not. Historically, it is claimed that he cannot have any further children, but, well… That is not truly the case. The Church takes measures to ensure that it is so. There have been rumors that any additional children, are, to be blunt, disposed of. It is truly terrible.”

“Seteth…” It’s the first time she’s said his name without his title, and it would feel almost too intimate if not for the fact that his thoughts are distracted. “How do you know all this?”

“I was training to be a priest, once, in my younger years,” he says smoothly, as smoothly as the brush now pulling through her untangled hair, as if he had never mentioned what he just said. “One learns things when they are in the Church for a long time.” After a few strokes, he stops brushing. “There. That should be much easier to braid now.”

“Thank you. For all of this.”

“It is my pleasure, Your Highness.”

“...you can call me Byleth, you know. When it’s just us.”

“Your father has told me the same thing, and I will say the same thing to you as I did to him: I can not, but thank you for the offer.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be proper.”

“I know, but I don’t care. You’re not just my guard, you know.” She leans back a little as he gently braids her hair, and he pushes her head forward again.

“You need to keep your head forward to keep the tension.”

“Don’t ignore me.”

“I must say, it’s hard to ignore you when I’m braiding your hair.”

“I’m trying to tell you that you’re my friend. A very dear one, at that. All of you are. You, Judith, Alois… It’s nice to have people around, besides my father, that actually care about me.”

“I am glad to hear that, Your Highness.”

“You know…I feel that I can relate to Saint Cichol, somewhat. I receive marriage offers constantly from people I’ve never even met. They don’t even know me at all, but they want my title.” Her face falls. “That’s all they want.” 

“I am sorry to hear that, Your Highness.”

“It’s not such a big deal, I suppose. I simply refuse them all. It’s more entertaining than anything, really, to see how desperate they can be.”

“So you say, and yet I cannot imagine that it is an easy thing for people to desire you for something you have no control over and has nothing to do with who you are.”

“I try to not let that bother me. After all, my father does not push for me to get married, so… There is no need for me to accept any offers, really. I am not entirely trapped.”

“That is something to be thankful for, then.” He ties off the braid and flips it over her shoulder. “There.”

“Yes… Yes it is, I suppose. Thank you, Seteth.” She’s about to stand when she stops, then turns to him. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble… Could you always brush my hair before I go to bed, when you’re with me? It felt nice.”

“If that is what you wish, Your Highness.”

“Thank you,” she says, and her lips curl upwards slightly into the phantom of a smile, tight and awkward but radiant nonetheless in his eyes.

As she settles into sleep, and he resumes his post, he mulls over how she called him a dear friend, and why it fills him with a warmth that he hasn’t felt for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am a phony and a fraud, tagging something as slow burn when they're already engaging in scandalous activities such as hair br*shing in chapter two
> 
> EDIT (5/13/20): to those of u who are afraid that this fic has been abandoned FEAR NOT!! it hasn't. I just have the attention span of a gnat and have been very busy but i'm gonna try and get chapter 3 out as soon as i can... thank u for ur patience


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